


Knock Out

by ashinan



Series: Sleep verse [2]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-27
Updated: 2011-11-27
Packaged: 2017-10-26 14:51:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/284543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashinan/pseuds/ashinan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony sees the world in numbers and calculations ready to be solved. Steve just wants him to sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knock Out

**Author's Note:**

> Second installment of the series I did for [-lazarus](http://-lazarus.tumblr.com/).

Tony focuses on the silent _thump-thump-thump_ of his fists connecting with the punching bag, not truly seeing the jumble of fibers and Kevlar and sand before him. Numbers slide in front of his eyes, bright and _there_ , calculating velocity and tiring rates and the amount of damage he could take if the bag decided to hit back. He ducks, weaves, pushes his legs out and in, catches the bag with the back of his heel and slams into it with an elbow. The numbers run faster, tripping over each other, and soon Tony is lost, the repetitive motion of his arms and swing of his body no longer tangible.

There’s nothing but numbers here, lost inside his own head, calculating, calculating, _calculating_ , and he doesn’t even register that he’s stopped moving, that the force behind his punches has been halted and that his mind is slowly pulling him back.

“Tony?”

Tony blinks, shakes away the edge of a five and the curve of an eight. He stares up at Steve, catches the resounding effect of a ten before his vision allows him full earthly access. He tries for a smile, but Steve is still frowning at him, that soft, familiar worry in his eyes. Tony doesn’t know how to handle that.

He deflects. “Hey, Cap, sorry, wanted to use the gym. I’ll get out of your way now; a lot to do in the workshop, too much really.”

“ _Tony_.” Steve’s voice is exasperated and Tony winces, a well used formula flashing before his eyes. Taking the amount of time Steve has spent with him, multiple it by the known average length people tend to stick around Tony (remove outliers like Pepper and Rhodey and Happy), divide by _Tony himself_ , and Steve has already bypassed the allotted time most people stay with him. He waves a hand in front of his face, watching the principle disappear. Steve has always been an anomaly. Tony will have to come up with a new equation.

“Steve,” Tony counters, the word sweet on his tongue. Steve raises an eyebrow at him and Tony banishes the numbers before they can slide down again. “I’m going, fine. You can have the gym.”

“That’s not why,” Steve starts, stops, pinches the bridge of his nose. Fifteen muscles bunch and contract, thirteen twist and frown and Tony waves again at his eyes, scattering the numbers. The delicate curve of a zero lingers in his peripheral. Steve narrows his eyes. “When was the last time you slept?”

“When did we talk on the couch?” Tony snaps his mouth closed, surprised that his mind would allow such a slip. Too much was said in that one sentence, of how he had been warm, warmer than when he was surrounded by his machines, or when he had taken various partners to bed. And it had been because of Steve, surrounding him, fingers threaded through his hair and heart beat strong in his ear. And even though Steve had left in the morning, before Tony had even registered, the chill creeping up and over his chest like empty sockets and stripped copper wire, it was still somewhat jarring.

Steve frowns. “Are you saying you haven’t slept for two days?”

That drags him back. “Depends. Possibly. Yes? I have work to do.”

“Tony.”

“Saying my name repeatedly isn’t conducive in making me do something. Reverse psychology has been known to work, Pepper uses it often, like the few times she managed to get me to sign something – no, wait, she manages that anyway with just being _Pepper_ – but really, you might get interesting results if you actually apply it.” Tony is babbling, he knows this, can feel the telltale lurch in his mind when the filter he usually has in place starts to falter. “Or you could possibly do something else, like offer me coffee. I’ve been good lately, only had about three cups today, and what time is it anyway?”

“Just a bit after two.”

“At night?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that actually explains a lot. Excuse me, workshop time. Jarvis!” Tony calls, unwinding sweat pocked bandages. Steve’s hand curls over his elbow, pulling him back gently. Jarvis doesn’t answer him.

“You need to go to bed.”

“I can’t.”

The words slip out before Tony has a chance to clamp down on them. He remembers uttering similar words, a treacherous and lethal blunder of the tongue. He looks back at Steve, watches the frown (muscles at forty two degrees, obtuse, _stop that_ ) and the flicker of worry. Steve’s hand is warm on his arm, and an urge crawls up Tony’s spine, a need to push his nose against Steve’s neck again, to bury himself in his heat and tug it over himself like a blanket. He resists. The odds are stacked far too high against him.

Steve tightens his fingers. “You said that before. Why not?”

Numbers, statistics, logarithms, slide over his eyes, calculating escape routes, possible scenarios, shifts of weight and the heat coming from Steve’s palm. Everything weighs so heavily on his mind, pushes at him to accept this, to accept what he has already figured out. There’s something hypnotic about the dip and sway of Steve’s hip, obviously subconscious and Tony leans forward, his body shifting as he’s lost to sums and fractions and the brilliant tumble of his mind. He can smell soap and cologne and leather polish and it curls around him like a well-loved engine. There’s cotton under his fingers, warmth at his elbow, and he’s pressed full length against Steve now, nose buried in the crook of his shoulder.

“‘m tired,” he says, watching the sliver of a seven drift away. The others scatter when Steve shifts his weight again, curling an arm tightly around his waist.

“I told you. Bed?”

A shiver runs up his spine, having little to do with how comfortable Steve is against him and very much to do with what comes with the idea of sleep. Well, sleep alone. He doesn’t want to watch that dark shade behind his eyes come to life, the one that looks like him, sneering and bright eyed, dragging him down, down, into something he _knows_ he’ll never escape. He doesn’t want to feel the angry curl of helplessness and betrayal snapping at the back of his heels, a constant fear that throbs in his mind along with the numbers. He shakes his head, and then continues to shake it, brushing his nose against the delicate curl of skin under Steve’s adam apple.

“No. Couch. Comfier,” he deflects, and Steve sighs, breath brushing against his hair. Tony decides he likes it.

“You should be sleeping. In a bed.”

“Can’t. Just let me talk at you, you’re good at listening to my inane babble.” They’re swaying again, moving toward the door, and Tony wonders how much he can get away with here. He pushes his hands up and under Steve’s shirt, ignoring the hitch in Steve’s breath and relishing in the tumble of warmth that cascades over him. He likes it here, likes the feel of Steve against him and Steve’s warmth and Steve’s everything. He snuggles closer.

“You are just ridiculous, Tony,” Steve says, soft against his ear. Tony hums, neither in agreement or denial.

They find their way to the couch, after Steve manages to rearrange him enough that Tony can still be pressed mostly against him. Tony begins talking, explaining the mechanics of moveable droids and training exercises that would aide in battle scenarios. He keeps his hands under Steve’s shirt, absorbing the heat from his back and his stomach. He realizes this probably looks wrong, calculates the possibility of it ruining their friendship, and discards it as Steve has proven to be an outlier. He curls closer, until he can feel the gentle call of sleep crawling over his mind. He lets the numbers run, lets them slip and slide and toss about until he’s lost in them, lost in Steve’s warmth.

He feels lips brush over his forehead and a whisper of, “Goodnight, Tony,” before the numbers solve the equation for sleep.


End file.
